


tried to walk

by fruti2flutie



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Death, M/M, Reapers, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 04:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8563630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruti2flutie/pseuds/fruti2flutie
Summary: kihyun dies.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ahhhhhhh i'm not entirely satisfied w/ the result of this fic, i could've made it so much better, but i don't know how else i could give this idea justice!!!!!! i just!!!!!!!!!! changki is my otp & this is the first fic i started when i got into mx!!!! honestly. this fic is like my goldfish i dont know what to do with except watch swim for hours around in the tank, & now i'm carrying the tank around w/ me and crying as i show it off. does that make sense???? it doesn't, i'm sorry, i am a mess
> 
> inspired by, w/ title taken from, [b1a4's "tried to walk"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxLV7M1sdjg)

Midnight. At midnight, the day before Christmas, Yoo Kihyun dies at the ripe age of twenty-six. He hadn’t even gotten to open any of his Christmas presents, which is hardly fair. Hyungwon hyped up his gift, and by examining its shape anyone could tell it was a _Nerf Gun_. Kihyun hasn’t had one of those since elementary school!

But then again, he’s dead, so there’s not much he can argue with regarding “fairness.”

“Am I allowed to hit you, or does that get me another ten years in hell?”

Changkyun, self-proclaimed Angel of Death (“Ooooh, spooky,” Kihyun had snickered before fully comprehending the situation), shakes his head. “Hell isn’t a prison, man. No ‘get out of jail free’ card either for where we’re going, because I’m more of a Jenga kind of guy.”

Kihyun, even with his frown, lets out a short chuckle at the attempt at humor. He and Changkyun have been sitting in a reed-filled ditch, away from the still steaming car crash in the middle of the road. Maybe it’ll burst into flames. Spontaneous combustion. Kihyun wants it to happen, because he’s already dead and the asshole who killed him might steal from his car because he’s _alive_ , that fucking bastard.

This is how it all went down: Kihyun had been driving back to the city from Hyunwoo’s party, hosted for his girlfriend and a few close friends, in the suburbs. The roads were fairly empty, so Kihyun had left the car on cruise control and relaxed. When he was halfway home, out of nowhere, a drunk driver going the wrong direction rammed straight into Kihyun’s Honda Civic, flipping both cars and leading to Kihyun’s unfortunate and untimely death. A lot of head trauma, a lot of blood loss, and no one around to call for an ambulance. Tragic.

At least that’s what Changkyun had told him. Changkyun, in a Grim Reaper-esque robe and unimpressive stature (the same height as Kihyun, which isn’t ideal for his current position), had appeared out of thin air, bringing Kihyun’s soul outside the car crash scene. Afterwards he declared frankly, “You’re dead, Yoo Kihyun. How do you feel?”

Some unknown span of time has passed since that reveal. Kihyun had a minor panic attack, not exactly screaming but making several noises equivalent to _????_ and _!!!!!_ and very accurately _!!??!?_. Desperately, he’d tried to return to his body, buckled in the driver’s seat, but he phases through anything tangible, including his upturned car and corpse. When it really sank in, the reality of being _dead_ , Kihyun had trudged back to Changkyun and plopped on the ground, watching as his car’s engine started to smoke. Changkyun sat next to him, wrapped his arms around his knees, and they sat in total silence.

Kihyun speaks again when he’s ready.

“Do you think I could get a refund for my life? Get a better one?” he asks bleakly. “It was pretty shitty. I stopped growing after I got into high school. I never found Hyungwon’s PS4 controller. Hey, my student loans aren’t paid off either.” Kihyun feels numb. “Can I be a dog? Dogs don’t have to worry about finances. I deserve that much for dying like this.”

Changkyun grins. “You don’t get to pick what or who you reincarnate yourself as. It’s either life or death,” he says, staring up at the stars. “A coin flip, if you ask me.”

“What’s the difference? What’s it mean, life or death?”

Readily prepared for the question Changkyun holds out his palms and begins, while raising his left hand, “You choose life: your soul gets inserted into an unborn entity. Be it animal, plant, human — what have you.” He then raises his right hand. “You choose death: your soul becomes like a ghost, and you turn into a messenger of death who brings those who’ve died to their rightful places in the afterlife. That’s me.”

“Huh.”

Kihyun hears the ambulance. It’s a couple miles away, equipped with red flashing lights and ear-piercing sirens. _It’s too late_ , he thinks. _You can’t save me_. There’s a heavy ache in his chest, and he bites his lip to stop himself from crying. Changkyun can definitely hear him sniffling, because a few seconds later Kihyun can feel Changkyun’s hand settling on his shoulder. He’s warm.

“Obviously, I chose death,” says Changkyun, gesturing to his dull getup. “I got a sweet job as a delivery boy, and I didn’t even have to send in my resumé.”

Kihyun allows himself smile, only a tad. He gets more curious, though, when the ambulance arrives at the scene. He sees the paramedics run out with the gurney, going to the overturned Civic to examine Kihyun’s lifeless body. Not even a minute later do they move on to the drunk driver. (They must already know Kihyun is a lost cause.)

“How’d you die?” Kihyun turns to Changkyun, who doesn’t look nearly as bright as he’d been when he first introduced himself, recoiling his hand from Kihyun’s shoulder. “Sorry if that struck a nerve. I’m horribly blunt.”

“No, you just... caught me off-guard. No one’s asked before,” Changkyun admits. He skims his thumb over a vein at his neck, careful, and says, “Gunshot, right here. I got caught in a crossfire. I bled out for a few hours before going cold.”

Kihyun regrets bringing it up, but luckily Changkyun doesn’t look particularly disturbed at his own confession. He looks at peace, if anything.

The paramedics are shouting, pulling the unconscious driver onto the gurney and wheeling him into the ambulance. Kihyun’s body is also brought inside, on a gurney. Soon, someone returns to the cars and collects the wallets and cellphones inside. With everything and everyone loaded the ambulance prepares to set off. (The crash scene, regrettably, is not in flames.)

Kihyun makes to stand and points to the vehicle. “Can we follow...? I— I want to see what happens.”

“Of course,” Changkyun says, hand outstretched, “but it’d be faster if we waited at the hospital.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, Kihyun unsurely slips his hand into Changkyun’s. It’s no longer warm; it’s cold, like a block of ice, and Kihyun misses the heat. “How will you get us there?”

Changkyun smirks, dark eyes reflecting a golden light in the darkness — and then they’re traveling through time, space, the in-between where reality bends but doesn’t break.

—

When Kihyun opens his eyes he’s sitting in an emergency room waiting area. The air is stale. The chair he’s in is uncomfortable, like this is the first time anyone has sat on it. Behind the counter there are several women, typing on computers, murmuring into the landlines. Changkyun is rifling through a rack of magazines, settling for a DIY crafts magazine that has panda cake-pops on the cover page. He glances back at Kihyun and does an _okay_ sign. Kihyun copies the gesture.

“The ambulance should be here soon,” Changkyun proclaims, settling in the chair beside Kihyun and handing him the magazine. “Waiting material.”

“My friends call me ‘the cooking king’,” Kihyun boasts offhandedly, flipping through the pages, and Changkyun cocks an eyebrow. “I’m a good cook, I swear.”

Changkyun shrugs innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”

Kihyun purses his lips, rolling the magazine between his fingers. “Enough about me,” he declares sulkily. He’s barely revealed anything about himself, but even this much is unusual for him. “Talk to me about you.”

“Me? What about me?”

“I don’t know. Why’d you want to do this?” Kihyun inquires. “The whole ‘Angel of Death’ business.”

Changkyun tugs at his collar, possibly a habit, and there’s a faint scar from the gunshot, a faded mark against pale skin. “I quite like what my life was. When you choose death you get to keep your memories. When you choose life you forget everything, and I didn’t want that,” he says, gaze drifting. He looks lost in thought.

“Must’ve been a hard decision,” Kihyun comments, and Changkyun comes back into focus, smiling softly. “Do you regret it?”

Changkyun responds, “When someone dies, the best thing they can have is another dead person to relate to — that’s what I think. I wanted to be that person, so no, I don’t regret it.” He brings both his thumbs up to point to himself, and then finger-guns Kihyun. “It helps to have a sense of humor to lighten the mood.”

Kihyun rolls his eyes. “You’re not _that_ funny.”

Changkyun winces petulantly. He clutches the front of his robe, where his heart is. “I’m wounded, Kihyun. Wounded.” Kihyun shoves at him.

The entrance doors burst open, not much later, and the paramedics who’d been at Kihyun’s crash scene come barreling inside. They’re only rolling one gurney back as they head for the emergency room, presumably for operation.

“I’m not on that, am I?” Kihyun sighs, and he doesn’t expect an answer, doesn’t want one. The gurney passes by like the manufactured winds from a speeding freight train, close enough to make Kihyun’s hair rustle and his nose upturned. He knows the gurney they bring in a few minutes later, slowly and without an ounce of urgency, is that of a dead man’s. Changkyun doesn’t talk and, again, Kihyun is grateful.

The entrance doors open again after half an hour has passed. Kihyun curses. The newcomer is either the last or the first person he wants to see right now, and his name is Shin Hoseok.

Many years ago, Yoo Kihyun met Shin Hoseok on the first day of primary school. Kihyun had been a little booger back then, brooding and selfish and antisocial. Hoseok found him on the playground sulking over a lost swing. Hoseok offered to play with him in the sandbox as long as they’d share the sculpting tools. Although Kihyun was initially unwilling Hoseok’s friendliness made him feel welcome in the new, unfamiliar scene of public school. Ever since, they’ve been there for one another.

But Kihyun doesn’t want Hoseok to be here for him now. No, not now.

Wrapped in a long overcoat, hair tousled by both the December wind and a midnight slumber, Hoseok shuffles to the counter and smiles. That bright, docile smile. The head receptionist doesn’t smile back, but he goes on undeterred, “Hello, I’m Hoseok. Shin Hoseok. I got a call, not too long ago, telling me to come here for Kihyun. It— It wasn’t a prank, right?”

“You’re one of Yoo Kihyun’s emergency contacts,” she proposes, and Hoseok nods stiffly. “Our staff did, in fact, call you. His parents hadn’t answered, nor did Lee Minhyuk. You were the only one we were able to get into contact with.”

“Shit—” Hoseok shamefully covers his mouth and reddens noticeably. Kihyun wonders if it’s okay to laugh. “I-I’m so sorry for my language. This is real, then? Not a joke?”

“I am afraid so.”

“Is Kihyun hurt badly?” Hoseok asks, concerned.

“Yes,” murmurs Kihyun, biting his lip. He’s digging his nails into the armrests of the chair to prevent himself from breaking the skin of his palms. Can he even bleed in this state? He doesn’t want to find out.

“Kihyun is very careful! Sometimes he skips a step on the stairs and falls, but only sometimes! Actually, he doesn’t watch where he’s going if he’s playing games on his phone... Was it his ankle? He’s sprained it before, but he’s never broken any bones—” Hoseok is rambling, and he catches himself before he can go on. “You must think I’m worrying too much, but I have to. That’s my job. I’m basically his big brother.”

The receptionist declares, “Before I disclose any more information, I need to see your ID.”

Hoseok’s hands go straight to his pockets but come out empty. “My car,” he says. “I must’ve left it in there. I’ll be right back.” He scrambles out the doors, almost tripping over his steps.

Kihyun stands abruptly. “Can I tell her not to say anything? About me, to Hoseok hyung?” he pleads to Changkyun, pulling at his hair. “I don’t— I don’t want him to know. Hoseok hyung shouldn’t be the one to get news like this. Not him. Not now.”

Changkyun’s face is grim. “He has to find out sooner or later,” he proclaims. “I’m sorry, Kihyun. I can’t intervene.”

“Liar.” The accusation is weak. Kihyun doesn’t have the will to get angry with Changkyun, because it’s not his fault. It’s the person who’d killed him, the one who’d crashed his car and is undergoing surgery to save their life. It’s their fault. It’s because of them Kihyun has to watch the last shreds of his life slip through his fingers.

Hoseok returns, triumphant, his wallet in his hand, and comes up to the front desk to show his ID. “Is it okay to see him now? Did he have to get a surgery or something like that? Should I put on a mask and gloves? Sterilize and sanitize?” He ducks his head, laughing. “Sorry. Too much? I’m nervous. It shows.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Shin,” the receptionist says, and her colleagues look away, busy themselves, “but Yoo Kihyun has been pronounced dead.”

The smile slides off Hoseok’s face in an instant. “Excuse me?” His voice is so small. His hands, which are poised atop the counter, are shaking. “What did you say?”

The receptionist sighs, and then restates carefully, “Yoo Kihyun is dead. He was involved in a car accident a few hours ago, and when our medical team arrived it was already too late for him. We attempted calling all his emergency contacts to relay this news and express our sincere condolences.” The woman bows as tears rapidly pool at Hoseok’s eyes.

“No, this— this is a joke. It has to be,” Hoseok blubbers, distressed. “I saw him yesterday. We— We went shopping together. Kihyun paid for lunch! I have his Christmas present wrapped for him, it’s this cute set of pajamas he’s wanted for months—” He slumps against the counter, breathing raggedly as he sobs, “He’s _younger_ than me. There was so much he could’ve— You can’t fucking tell me he’s _dead._  Kihyun can’t be.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

When Hoseok breaks down Kihyun does, too, except Hoseok doesn’t have anyone to hold him like Changkyun does for Kihyun.

—

A cool thing about being dead, Kihyun discovers, is that he can eat all the ice cream he wants and not get a brain freeze. The fact that it’s winter, also, makes the feat even more impressive.

He and Changkyun are sitting outside a desserts shop, across from one another, eating from small cups of chocolate- and cookie dough-flavored ice cream respectively. Changkyun has this nifty skill of making himself visible to humans, where he can physically touch and interact, that he employed to purchase their order. When he’d talked with the cashier he was still wearing his dark robe, which could explain the puzzled looks he was given from the workers. (Or maybe it was because he’d ordered two ice creams, alone, even though it’s literally freezing outside. The world may never know.)

“Go change your outfit,” Kihyun says, squinting at Changkyun, who happens to simultaneously spill a chocolate chip on his lap. “Every time I look at you I get bummed out and remember I’m dead. The black is — for lack of a better phrase — killing me.”

Truthfully, Kihyun doesn’t mind it as much now — the fact that he’s passed away. He’s gotten over it, after a good cry, for the most part. Yesterday, when Hoseok had cried all by himself for almost a whole hour, Kihyun understood what reality he was facing. Emptiness. Loss. There’s nothing Kihyun can do, nothing Changkyun can do to change the fact that he’s no longer living. That’s just how it has to be. And it’s pretty fucked up, if you ask him, but it’s nine a.m. and he’s eating free ice cream in single-digit degree weather, so it can’t be too bad.

Changkyun is crestfallen as he flicks the stray chocolate chip onto the ground. “Do you really want me to change?” he asks, pouting. “I don’t know if I can. I never tried.”

Kihyun grimaces. “What, is that your uniform?”

“Yeah, actually. I think so,” Changkyun says. “I think I’ll be breaking some kind of dress code if I take it off.”

“Well, can _I_ change? It feels weird, being in the same clothes for so long.”

“That I know you cannot do. You’d be messing with the physical and spiritual worlds by trying, and that’s something only we messengers are allowed to do.”

“Damn it.”

Changkyun shrugs. “I don’t make the rules, man. I only enforce and follow them. If you want, I can totally write a strongly worded letter to Satan or God. Your call.”

Scoffing, Kihyun stirs around the melted ice cream in his relatively empty bowl, breathing out a warm puff of air that doesn’t leave a misty cloud in its wake. “What are we still here for, Changkyun?” he asks quietly.

“I’m not done with my ice cream yet.”

“I meant earth. In Seoul. Amongst the living,” Kihyun clarifies, making wide motions with his hands. “You know.”

“You can stay here for up to a month. Any longer makes things complicated. Anything less is completely acceptable,” Changkyun says. “If you wanna leave now...”

“No! Not yet.” Kihyun clenches his fists on his lap. “I want to see my apartment for one last time, my friends, my family—” He pauses. “Can I go to my own funeral?”

“Of course,” Changkyun responds. “Most people don’t, but that’s your choice to make.”

“Yeah. I need to, for... closure. I don’t know. I can’t leave without— without—”

“Saying goodbye?” guesses Changkyun, and it hits its mark. “ _You_ can’t really, but I can be a messenger for that, too.”

“How?”

“Just like how I ordered our ice cream,” Changkyun says,  “except I’d be crashing your funeral.”

Kihyun snorts, “No one would kick you out.”

“Hey, you never know.”

There’s a lapse of silence. Kihyun is stuck thinking, hard, about what he could possibly tell Changkyun to pass on to his friends and family. He’ll miss them? Of course, that’s a given. He shouldn’t have died? Yeah, that’s definitely a given, too. Kihyun wonders if all dead souls have to go through this, this process of trying to find words that can last and leave an impression even after they’re gone.

It’s scary.

“Take your time,” Changkyun reassures, smiling warmly. “We have a lot of it.”

—

Kihyun and Changkyun spend the week prior to Kihyun’s funeral roaming the streets of Seoul, sightseeing in Busan, walking along the oceanside in Daecheon. The feeling is barely different, albeit he doesn’t have to worry about bumping into anyone. The wind still blows through his hair, the water at the coast is still cold at his feet. Passerby go on with their days, unaware there’s a spirit in their presence. (Changkyun playfully phases in and out of human perception “just to get a kick out of people,” who yell bloody murder before hastily regaining composure.)

So, Kihyun will ask Changkyun to bring him somewhere, and the Angel of Death readily obliges. It feels natural, almost, how they are able to walk together in silence, not uttering a word. They’ll glance at one another, smile. Kihyun feels safe.

At some point in between Kihyun asks if they can go to his apartment. Nothing is different; everything is still in place. The coupons are stacked on the kitchen counter, organized by expiration date. The milk has gone bad, and there’s half a sandwich left in the fridge from Kihyun’s lunch from Christmas Eve. It’s almost as if he never...

Hesitantly, Kihyun shows Changkyun around his room. He’s never really let anyone see it, his personal space, not even his closest friends. It’s not like he has anything to hide, but it’s... Kihyun feels like he could be so easily judged from the content on his shelves. He can’t help that he’s a bit self-conscious.

Changkyun sits cross-legged on Kihyun’s bed as Kihyun goes through all his things, from old postcards to claw machine prizes, lucky pencils to dog-eared novels. When Changkyun gets curious Kihyun nostalgically tells of their stories and origins. The _Misconceptions of You_ album, for example, the corners bent out of shape and the lavender color fading. SHINee has always been one of Kihyun’s favorite artists, ever since middle school, when he’d dyed his hair to match Taemin’s. He remembers loving their music, their dances, and wondering if he could ever get to their level. That was a dream that fizzled out quickly, because Kihyun never really was a dreamer.

“You should sing,” Changkyun says, suddenly. “Sing for me.”

Kihyun grips the album tightly, as if it’ll fall through his fingers. “Why?” _Why should I_?

“You look like you want to.”

Both of them lie flat on Kihyun’s bed, and Kihyun sings. Songs from the past, songs on the radio now, songs he’s heard his mother sing to him when he was a child. He’s confident in his abilities, how well he sounds, lets his voice hang in the air after each note. The only one who can hear him is Changkyun, at his side, and when Changkyun reaches blindly into the empty space between them to hold Kihyun’s hand it encourages him to sing louder.

—

“How many times have you done this?” Kihyun asks. He and Changkyun are sitting at a park, on the grass, by the Han River. The city lights are illuminating the dark night, and ferries ride the crashing waves. Kihyun’s funeral is tomorrow, and they’re waiting for the hours to pass. The sound of rushing water is calming. “The escort business.”

Changkyun holds up three fingers. “First time was the worst,” he starts, gazing at the stars. “She was a little girl, maybe nine or ten. A car hit her after she ran into the street. She asked me if she could go back to her mom, and I had to tell her that that was it. I didn’t know how to make her stop crying.” He looks down at his hands. “The second guy was a jerk, so I don’t care much about him. He was killed in self-defense after trying to sexually assault his girlfriend. I punched him in the face when I first saw him, but it didn’t do anything. He was a football player, and it hurt me more than him. Honestly, I was surprised he didn’t punch me back.”

Kihyun, despite himself, laughs. “And the third?”

“A grandma. She was ninety-three,” Changkyun says, and his smile is wide as he remembers it. “She told me about her seven cats — she named them after the days of the week. We went around to visit her children and grandchildren. They were great people, full of life and love. The funeral was easy to listen to, and she cried. She was glad to finally be with her husband, though, and hugged me before she left.”

“So you’ve gotten used to it?”

Changkyun shakes his head. “No, not in the slightest.”

“But you seem so natural with me,” Kihyun says, feigning coolness. He picks at the grass beneath him, sprinkles it onto Changkyun’s lap.

“I like you,” Changkyun says, quiet. “You’re easy to be with.”

Kihyun pauses. He peers at Changkyun, who is looking the other way. The tips of his ears are red. Kihyun feels a little hot, too. “Thank you,” he says softly. “Thanks.”

—

Kihyun’s funeral is no different than any other funeral. They have his picture on display at the memorial, wreaths of flowers on either side, incense sticks burning. His family wears yellow bands around their forearms, sniffling as friends and close relatives greet them and give their condolences. Kihyun stands alongside them, watching in silence, and Changkyun grasps his hand, a grounding element that would surely have Kihyun tumbling without it.

In the evening a large number of relatives and friends have gathered. Hoseok and Hyungwon come together, and the whole time Hoseok has his head hung low. Kihyun wants to pat him on the back, but he can’t. Hyungwon pulls Hoseok close.

Kihyun’s older brother steps up, in front of everyone, and thanks them all for coming. His face is hard, like a stone statue, as he takes out a piece of paper: a eulogy. Changkyun makes sure Kihyun doesn’t let go.

“As you all know, Kihyun was—” His older brother chokes on his words, hands fisting the sheet of paper in front of him. “Kihyun was our brother, our son, our friend, our everything.”

By the end of it Kihyun is bawling. The entirety of the room is, too, much worse than himself. Hyunwoo, the immovable force, has used half a box of tissues for himself, and Changkyun’s nose is running. Kihyun’s parents are kneeling, praying to God, hoping their son won’t have too much trouble in the afterlife. His parents are broken records and brokenhearted; they cry, _it’s cruel to outlive the youngest son_ , and Kihyun couldn’t agree more.

Belatedly, Kihyun realizes he hasn’t passed a message to tell to his family and friends to Changkyun yet. It’s a frenzy of emotions that run through him as he crowds Changkyun’s space, sobs into his neck.

“Tell them—” Kihyun hiccups, tears streaming and eyes forced shut, “Tell them—”

Changkyun soothes him with a short-lived kiss on the lips. Kihyun doesn’t remember the last time he’s been kissed, and he doesn’t remember it feeling so comforting. Changkyun pulls away and holds Kihyun’s face in his hands, smiles.

“I’ll tell them.”

Kihyun can’t see how Changkyun materializes to the living, but in the next moment he does. Kihyun’s family turns to the newcomer, confused, as Changkyun approaches them and says, “Kihyun wouldn’t want you to cry.” His words are soft, sweet. “Smile. Smile, just for today. He doesn’t want to see you wasting your tears for a picture.”

Maybe it’s the way Changkyun takes Kihyun’s mother’s hand after he says it, or how Kihyun’s father gives him an abrupt embrace, or Changkyun’s simple offering of tissues to Kihyun’s brother — maybe it’s something, something else entirely that makes Kihyun’s heart feel like it’s beating again.

—

The crossroads to the afterlife is in an open field. Flowers that should decorate the hills are covered in a thick sheet of snow, Changkyun and Kihyun’s steps leaving no trace on the ground. Changkyun takes them to a large oak tree, devoid of leaves, the trunk hollow. Kihyun places his hand on the wood, wondering if this dead tree can feel the fingerprints of a dead man.

“So? You’re gonna be reincarnated,” Changkyun says, and his smile is somber. “It was nice meeting you, Kihyun.”

Kihyun swallows thickly, because he’s made his choice. Rebirth. He can’t do the same as Changkyun, can’t continue with the guilt of dying too early, too soon, before he was able to live to the fullest. Starting over is what he wants to do, how he wants it to end.

“Will I ever see you again?” Kihyun asks, voice at a whisper.

Changkyun chuckles under his breath. “Who knows,” he says. “You can die in your next life, and maybe I’ll see you then.” He laughs again, more genuine. “Wow, that sounds morbid, doesn’t it?”

“I won’t remember you,” Kihyun declares, not wanting to leave just yet. Not wanting to let go.

“No—” Changkyun brings Kihyun into his arms, fitting his head perfectly at Kihyun’s shoulder, “—But I’ll remember you. I’ll always remember you, and I don’t think you’ll ever forget that.”

Kihyun dies. Kihyun dies, and he finds Changkyun there, smiling, telling him it’ll be okay on the other side, it’ll be okay because he will be loved, just like he’s always been loved before.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Changkyun meets Kihyun again, thirteen years down the line, as a calico cat. He nuzzles Changkyun’s palm, licks away his tears, as Changkyun hums, “I’m glad that you missed me!”

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  credit @[wonho](http://wonho.tumblr.com/post/149097925739/who-let-them-cook-together)


End file.
